A/N: Once again, thanks for the wonderful replies! They keep me going. With the exception of one person (who was too chicken shit to post a signed reply), this is the best feedback I've ever received for a fic. As for that particular person, I wish you had spent more time in college learning basic grammar rather than researching the Iliad. It would have done you a world of good.
Briseis huddled in the corner, unable to fall asleep. The sky was just a few hours shy of dawn, and she knew what the dawn would bring. More bloodshed and more death. She dreaded each second that passed, even if it might bring her freedom. She'd never be free again, not from the nightmares or the memories. Memories of his bright blue eyes and the way they bore into her. She'd never been rattled by anyone the way she'd been rattled by him, and that wasn't good. He wasn't supposed to mean anything to her, wasn't supposed to arouse any feeling within her other than hate.
But he did.
He irritated her tremendously because she found it impossible to hate him. And it confused her. She didn't even dislike him. On the contrary, she now couldn't imagine living without knowing he existed in the world. She couldn't imagine her life without this war, and what it had taught her. She'd learned that even enemies could show respect and tolerate one another. She'd learned that while most men kill for greed, one killed only for glory. It didn't make him better than the rest, just different. And Zeus help her she liked different.
She'd never really been entranced by a man. They had never interested her, until now. Now, held captive in Agamemnon's quarters, she couldn't stop thinking about the man who would have died in order to protect her. He'd been surrounded by a dozen soldiers, and scores more would have been at his back had he hurt Agamemnon, and yet he'd still been ready to fight. Because Agamemnon had taken her from him, because he'd threatened to take her body and make it his own.
Briseis shuddered and clutched her legs more tightly. Agamemnon had not touched her since Achilles stormed out of the tent, and she was grateful for that. He hadn't even looked in her direction again, but had simply ordered his soldiers to release her. After Achilles left, he kept on looking in the warrior's direction for too long a while, and she then knew that what Achilles had said was right. Agamemnon's quarrel was with him, not her. And that was good because it meant she'd go unharmed as long as Achilles was alive.
The few hours before dawn passed quickly and the tent filled with sunlight. Briseis pretended to sleep as everything came to life around her. She could hear soldiers coming in and out, passing right by her, their swords clanking against their armor as they walked. She froze when she felt someone standing above her, watching her. For a moment she thought it might be Achilles, but then she remembered that the legendary warrior's last place before a battle would be looking for an enemy priestess.
A short while after the noise had erupted in Agamemnon's quarters, it subsided, and she knew that the Greeks had left for battle. She stirred in her makeshift cot, formed from two rough blankets that irritated her skin. Her eyes opened slowly and she found that she was completely alone. She sat up then and looked around. If ever there was a chance to flee, it was now. She could run out, run to Achilles' tent and wait for him to return in the evening. Although everything in her told her to go, she remained seated, unable to even blink.
If she left, Achilles would die.
Agamemnon would like nothing more, and she couldn't bear it. When she'd said that she didn't want anyone dying because of her, she'd meant that she didn't want Achilles dying because of her. In the short time that she'd known him, he'd been able to leave a mark on he soul like nobody else. His piercing blue eyes had carved out a piece of her and a part of him had moved in to fill that void. She was no longer oblivious to the emotions poets had written about for centuries. Sitting there, a captive in a ruthless king's tent, she now understood them all. The fear, the hope, the impossible, surreal feeling in the pit of her stomach. He'd done that to her in the span of just a few hours. He'd placed doubt in her mind, had made her question everything she thought she wanted and everything she lived for.
And she felt horrible.
She felt as though she was betraying everything - Apollo, her family, her countrymen, Troy, and mostly herself. She was a Trojan priestess who detested death. She'd sworn to celibacy until the day she died, and yet her body burned whenever he crossed her mind. He was a Greek warrior who only knew how to kill, who felt absolutely no remorse because of it. He was everything she wasn't, everything she thought she detested only to find out that she didn't. She couldn't, not after his eyes had burned into hers.
She didn't hate him even now, now when she knew that scores of Trojans were falling at the edge of his sword. She remembered him from the day before when he'd been ready to spill Greek blood because of her, and her breath caught in her throat. All her life she'd pitied soldiers, but she found it difficult to pity him. His presence demanded something other than pity, something entirely different than she'd ever experienced before. It was something that she couldn't quite resist, and she found that she didn't want to.
She inhaled deeply, reclining on the rough blankets and closing her eyes. She was either completely losing her mind, or had been born without one. She needed to get a grasp on her feelings and realize that they were completely ludicrous.
But when sleep finally overtook her and he appeared before her eyes, she knew that she'd never be able to.
Achilles awoke slowly, unable to let go of the dream he was having. As the rays of sunlight broke through the leather straps that hung at the entrance of his tent, they assaulted his eyes and forced his mind from the brink of unconsciousness. As his eyelids parted, her face remained fresh in his mind and his pulse quickened. He remembered most the way her eyes had widened in shock when she'd looked up to find him completely naked. He remembered the pink blush that had crept up her face, and it unnerved him. He knew that he was the first man she'd looked upon in that way, and he liked it. He liked the feeling of satisfaction of knowing that he would forever remain engraved in her memory, no matter what the future beheld for the both of them.
He was a selfish man, no question about it, and that selfishness only increased because of the connection he felt to her. He didn't necessarily like it because it made him more vulnerable, and he'd never been vulnerable in his life. But it also made him see everything in a different light, which wasn't all too bad. The connection he felt somehow intensified everything around him, making it difficult for him to breathe. Knowing her had made him realize just how human he really was and how capable he was of feeling everything he always thought he couldn't. She suddenly gave meaning to everything - to life, to death, to war, to glory, and mostly to women.
She was the first woman he didn't look upon as a sexual object. Her childish innocence prevented her personality from reeking sexuality, but it didn't mean that he didn't want her. On the contrary, he wanted her more than any other woman he'd ever been with. Her innocence only increased the growing desire he had for her. Part of the reason for this was his selfishness and the need to show her everything she was missing. But a large part of it was that he felt drawn to her, both physically and mentally. He'd never felt that way before, ever, and it excited him.
He groaned with frustration and sat up quickly. He was seriously loosing his mind. To have a virgin girl affect him the way the priestess did was unnatural, especially for a man with his standing. He stood up and dressed himself in a black toga, looking around at the mess he'd made in disgust. He must have been really crazy last night, or really drunk, or both. Broken dishes were scattered everywhere because of some Trojan priestess he'd known for less than a day and hadn't even touched.
He hesitated for a moment before bending down to clean the mess he'd made. He cleared everything rapidly and felt much better when all traces of his stupidity were erased. He then went outside to find that everyone had already left for battle. For a split second he considered seeking out the priestess, but his pride got the better of him and he started walking toward the walls of Troy.
He found the Myrmidons crowded on a hill overlooking the battle. His men were all dressed in black like him, and each one was pacing back and forth as they watched the clash play out in front of them. Menelaus had been killed, and the Greeks were marching toward the Trojan walls blindly. Achilles saw their mistake before they even made it, and it would cost them their victory. He too began to pace, irritated at how awful a general Agamemnon had proved to be. The Greek soldiers were too close to the walls, and were in the devastating range of the Trojan archers. He watched as their lines began to crumble until there was only chaos, and he couldn't look on anymore. Agamemnon's blunder had cost them a victory, and had given the Trojans the boosted morale that they needed.
In no time the scattered Greek army was fleeing back to their camp, the enemy hot on their tails. They had indeed lost the battle for the day, and the Spartans had lost their king. As the battlefield began to clear, Achilles saw scores of Greek soldiers lying dead and he began to feel restless. His fingertips began to itch for his sword, but his pride was stronger than his desire to fight. As his men looked at him gravely, he walked past them without a word and headed back to his tent. If Agamemnon wanted victory, he'd have to give up the priestess first, unharmed. He would not fight until she was back with him, and he was losing his patience.
Dusk settled quickly as he roamed the camp, looking for the girl. The remaining soldiers looked after him, some demoralized and some angry, but he didn't care. Their king was responsible for their loss, not him. Their king had decided to insult him and take away what was rightfully his. Although, he knew very clearly, she'd never be his. No matter what he did to her or didn't, he could never make her his. Her personality didn't allow it, nor did her pride, but it didn't mean that he wouldn't try. He was about to give up his search when the corner of his eye caught someone in a green dress being tossed around, and he halted.
When he heard a savage, "Give the bitch to me!" his blood boiled in his veins and he didn't waste another minute. He ran for the men who were making the commotion, prepared to kill.
